I do not own League of Legends.
Enjoy! =D
The room is lavishly decorated; the tapestries on the wall are the same ones her mother used to make when she was alive. The alcoves are ornamented with fine ceramic that were crafted by the Noxians'—uncannily—gentle hands. The bed is dressed with bedding of silk pink, with the softest mattress and the softest pillows dressed in the same color as the bed. The blanket is folded; not a crease can be seen and is laid on top of the pillows. A full length mirror stands before her; its frame is made of finely carved gold.
All in all the room is not somewhere she would like to spend the night with. She has never been a fan of lavish tastes; that department is her younger sister's domain. The mirror however, reminded her too much of her own room. The problem with this one is that it taunted her; it goaded her and dared her to pick up her blades and break the glass with the hilt.
But her blades are far from her reach and she has no means of getting to them. She turns to the mirror and sees herself; her crimson hair is braided and kept out of her face with the exception of a few strands; on her is a shimmering black gown that embraces her figure tightly. A black choker that matches her dress is around her neck; a single diamond is at the middle, matching the earrings she's wearing. Everything on her is centered on the black dress she's wearing except for the bangles on both wrists she has.
They're made of materials that she doesn't recognize, but they're slightly colored purple and carved with runic inscriptions. Every now and then the inscriptions glow faintly and they ensure that she isn't able to use any of her abilities, or take up a blade for that matter.
They told her of her impending doom: hers and a few other people.
Grand General Jericho Swain never struck her as the theatric type. If anything he looks like the one who will care about anything but presentation. Apparently she's wrong. The clothes she's wearing and the ceremony to proceed is proof of her wrong belief. Perhaps Draven is rubbing off him, maybe he realized that things would be boring if he just put them all in the arena and kill them with the executioner's axes; maybe Swain wanted a show for a change.
And it unnerves her.
How can someone think of something as cruel as a wedding execution?
She sighs and stares at the mirror. Her eyes stare back at her dully. She would want to know what has happened to Cassiopeia, but she can pretty much deduct that her sister's in a cell at the lower levels of the Noxian manor. Talon is nowhere to be found and she can only hope that he has caught wind of what is about to take place.
Her hopes fall down as she realizes that there will be nothing a few men can do against the entire Noxian guard force. There's a small chance; though her father had stressed the importance of whatever chance, she cannot help but feel the depressing weight of the situation.
It happened rapidly and no one saw it coming. Swain managed to cripple Jarvan IV in a battle and the Demacian forces were made to surrender, for what reason, Katarina doesn't remember, but it must be very dire to make their resilient soldiers surrender to the Noxians. Jarvan and his inner circle are to be executed not in the arena, but in a Noxian hall where the wedding ceremony will also take place. As one of the people that oppose him, the eldest Du Couteau is also in line for execution along with the younger lady and their loyal lapdog.
But they are to take part in a wedding first. Katarina is to be the bride and her groom? No one is more worthy of her hand than Garen Crownguard, the finest of Demacia's produce; second only to the Lightshield heir himself. The others who are to be executed are the guests of the wedding, naturally, while the rest of the guests are the spectators, Swain's colleagues and compatriots and other Noxians of importance. Jarvan would have fit nicely, but Garen's… circumstances and encounters with her make him the better candidate.
She sits on the wooden stool of varnished wood. Preparations were made a few weeks ago, for the guests and for the ones who are to be 'married'. The idea of your death approaching inevitably and at a rapid rate is all too overwhelming even for her. The Sinister Blade stares at the bangles, the misfit in her ensemble. They aren't worn for ornamenting purposes; they're supposed to keep them from using any innate abilities that they have.
The Du Couteau lady would cry but none of those treacherous tears would come out. The few times in her life when she cried were the deaths of her parents. Her mother's was abrupt and without warning; the last thing she had ever said to the Du Couteau matriarch was to weave a tapestry that would depict their great family. And then she passed on.
Her father's death was—in her own opinion—more expected. That did not mean though, that she took Marcus's death lightly. To make it worse, she was at Ionia then, taking care of a matter pressed into her calloused palms. She cried in the privacy of her room, remembering how her father would confide with her in the lateness of the evening under the influence of spirits and a single candlelight flickering in the darkness. And then he passed on.
If she cannot weep for herself, then she would at least weep for Cassiopeia. The cursed sister had nothing to do with her affairs against the Grand General and is being executed for the mere fact that she is a Du Couteau. No matter how much Katarina convinced herself that her sister would be better off dead, she cannot bring herself to fully fortify that claim.
She thinks that it's the guilt of dragging her poor sister into this mess. The younger Du Couteau lady had always been frail and weak; she was the only one who completely shunned a blade and traded it for a comb in their mother's hand. Being the older sister, Katarina had been tasked with protecting the slithering beauty of the Du Couteau family. But she failed; today would be the first time that she had power over whatever doom the serpentine lady would face, but fail to avert it.
Her thoughts flee to Cassiopeia who is probably in a dark and damp cell. The guest list had her sister's name, but whether she'd appear as a guest or as a mascot, Katarina doesn't know. Swain only made the wedding known and the execution that would follow after it. She wonders and hopes that they treated her sister well. It was, after all, the last days of her life.
Perhaps if the younger Du Couteau wasn't turned into the serpent she is now, then perhaps she would be spared from such an animalistic treatment. Maybe Swain would let her marry Garen in this orchestrated execution.
The door opens and the sound of metal groaning and she turns to it immediately. Darius, without his axe, steps in and clears his throat. He had always wanted to see the Sinister Blade kicked at her side and whining helplessly for reprise. He would have liked her to suffer more, in fact; to see her bawling on the ground and pleading with incoherent groans and sobs. Finally he would bring down his axe and separate her head from her body very, very slowly.
But this works too. A wedding; an enactment of every little girl's dream turned into a cold-hearted killer's fantasy. An occasion of feasting and celebrating and smiles and laughter will be turned into a tragedy. It's all prepared; he's sure that the pride-ridded Sinister Blade of Noxus will fall to her knees and beg for respite that might as well never come.
"Your carriage awaits," he says with as little bitterness as he can muster. He doesn't want to stay civil with her any longer than he has to; she is well aware of that so she doesn't make use of pretenses and stands up curtly.
She ignores him and heads outside and that's fine by him. He can let her have her final chance to be the snobbish brat that she is. During the wedding, everything will be entirely different.
Katarina climbs the carriage and as the door is closed before her, she can only stare longingly at the house of her birth, her childhood and her entire lifetime.
She can never return to it, for she is about to marry death.
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen; eighteen…
He counts the bolts on the window and stares at the glass pane that shows the coach that's driving his carriage to Noxus where he is going to be married. And frankly it does little to his trembling hands. He misses the feel of his sword's hilt, tight against the calluses of his palms. Without his armor, the seasoned general feels bare and vulnerable; the latter is of some truth, one that he cannot relate to.
His thoughts wander, to his city-state, to his best friend and his King, to his comrades, to his sister; to his family. They surrendered for a reason soon forgotten as their execution was announced.
But even the overwhelming gravity of their predicament is not enough to make him forget the deaths of thousands, both Demacian and Noxian alike. His men stayed by his side till the end and the managed to make a large gap in the Noxian forces, but suddenly it seemed that victory was never for Demacia and her proud banners. It seemed, to him and to everyone from Demacia, that Swain had orchestrated everything.
Garen Crownguard clutches his hair with his large and heavy fingers; his eyes fall on the cufflinks: tiny gold implements that are carved with the same carving on the Demacian shields wielded by many a man of the Dauntless Vanguard. The fissures are carefully filled with glossy cerulean paint to ensure that there would be no spilling. His coat is tailored by the finest from Demacia and it slightly shines a cerulean glow when the sun strikes it.
It pains him to have all their hard work be wasted on a dead man's corpse.
He hasn't seen anyone other than Le Blanc; she was the one who took care of his preparations. At the moment, the Demacian general wants nothing more than to see and be able to talk with Jarvan IV and Luxanna. Unfortunately, they won't live long enough to be able to converse with them.
And then his hands shake again. He resorts to counting the bolts but this time he always loses count.
Eighteen… Five… Twelve… Nine… Twenty-two…
Frustration takes the better of him and the male Crownguard buries his face in his palms. He had always known that death is inevitable; all the more as he made himself a general of Demacia. But he does not want to die in such a… celebratory manner. He imagined lines and lines of soldiers, high and low ranked alike to part in the wake of his casket. The banner of Demacia is covering his lacquered bed and her songs are in the air as he kisses the ground and bids them goodbye. Whether he died of old age or in battle would be preferable in contrast to the demise he will be facing.
His marriage is a different thing. While he had never seriously thought about getting married; Garen knew that he would simply have not enough time for his family. But he isn't completely closed to the idea. He would marry given that the woman understands the repercussions of marrying a Demacian General who has his heart solely for the city-state.
The carriage comes to an abrupt halt, making him lean forward. He pushes back the red velvet curtain that's blocking the window to his side and stares into the gloomy steel gates. When he passes through them, there will be no return; he will face his death. With heavy steps that are not known to the Might of Demacia, he gets down from the carriage and approaches the gates of death.
As per tradition, the groom will wait for the bride. Grand General Swain has extensively prepared for this macabre occasion. The chandeliers are brightly polished and light up the isle, carpeted with a bright red carpet over the pristine porcelain tiles of the hall. The benches are akin to church benches albeit with the symbol of Noxus carved at the sides.
He looks on and sees that the altar is made of pure marble with veins of gold running haphazardly over the smooth surface. A grand piano stands beyond the altar, its pipes mounted on the wall and reaches to the ceiling to ensure that every note will be heard richly. The stools where the bride and groom are to sit on are cushioned with a fat olive green pillow on the sturdy wooden material. If the circumstances were different, he would be very delighted to oblige to marriage, even to the Sinister Blade of Noxus herself.
While Garen and Katarina are indeed rivals, he cannot deny that she will make a very lovely bride. He loved her, once upon a time, before politics got in the way and before she knew that he was from Demacia and he knew that she was from Noxus. Everything slid down rapidly after those truths and he, at the time, couldn't even begin to comprehend the utter devastation he felt.
Now that he has come to this, he would have liked to resolve their past conflicts. But there simply is no time left for both of them.
A bell tolls in the distance; it announces that it is five hours past the noonday sun. Garen turns to see the carriage doors opening to reveal his friends, his comrades and most of all, his King, Jarvan Lightshield IV. Luxanna is falling a bit behind and is being pushed onward by Urgot's claw. It saddens him to see that his sister's naturally jubilant mood has been dampened and the sparkle of youth and energy in her eyes have dulled into sorrow and fatigue.
She meets his eyes and turns away instantly. The female Crownguard had always been gentle, frail and soft; that's why he'd been very protective of her, even as she grew up and joined the League. Seeing her brother in those clothes and thinking that he would play into some sick and twisted stage play makes her want to scream and lash out recklessly.
They're going to die anyway; there will be no risk.
If anything she would be helping herself.
Seeing his sister in such a sorry state, Garen can only muster a small smile, one that is not unnoticed by the people around him.
It does, however, the exact opposite of the desired effect.
Katarina gets down from the carriage, purposefully ignoring Darius' outstretched hand. The latter huffs and follows behind her. It would be very easy to kill her right now. She's vulnerable and can't fight back, but he restrains himself. Swain has a different plan for her death and he doesn't want to be the one receiving the end of the old man's anger when she dies in by his hands. Before they enter the silent hall, he shoves a bouquet of red lilies into her hands.
She wants to glare at him but refrains herself from doing so. As she hears the ominous wedding march echoing through the hollow halls, a sense of dread falls over her. She could run, but there would be nowhere to run to anymore. Then again, Swain had recently become theatric; wouldn't a run-away bride who eventually gets killed by the groom's family as an act of vengeance after the hopeful bachelor kills himself be a wonderful scene?
As a young girl—even one with superior killer instincts—the Sinister Blade dreamed to walk down this same isle with her arm around her father's. She would smile whole-heartedly because her beloved is waiting at the other side. She would be happy because her mother says that a wedding is a happy occasion, even though she did not fully understand. Seated at the benches would be her family, her friends and the people that are important to her.
She stares at the 'guests': her fellow criminals who are to be punished for their unforgivable crimes towards Noxus and its sovereign. To her left are the Demacians—restrained by accessories made of the same arcane properties as her bangles—and to her right are the spectators of the stage play, the Noxians allied with the Grand General. She also sees her sister, Cassiopeia who is chained to the wall through a metal collar. The serpentine lady has seen better days, Katarina decides and ultimately she blames herself for her sister's involvement in the matter.
At the other side of the isle is a man clad in a cerulean suit; even without speaking, she knows of his loyalties to Demacia. She knows that even as death shadows him, he bears the city-state with an insurmountable dignity and pride.
She sees Garen Crownguard, the Might of Demacia and the knave of her foolish heart.
And then she smiles, a soft lingering smile that matches the radiance of the chandeliers.
Smile, Katarina, her mother would say. The one you love waits at the other side.
She does, because she once loved him—from the flowers of spring to the leaves of fall.
Swain watches as she walks. Her steps are small and calculated, as if prolonging the inevitable. He could care less about what schemes she has under her sleeves. Talon is the only loose end of his plan. But what can he do? He will be alone if he tries to make any move of foolishness and that will not allow him to make a difference.
The smile on her face does not perturb him. Her expression however, considerably changed the naturally ominous nature of the wedding march played on the piano. He steps into the threshold and takes his place behind the marble altar. The Master Tactician's eyes meet with her hard emerald ones and for a moment a sliver of intense fury passes through her eyes. He narrows his eyes at her and suddenly Beatrice caws. He chuckles as it would seem that the raven assured him of the flawlessness of his plan.
Katarina reaches the end of the isle, where Garen—who also acquired a small smile in between—is waiting for her. They are silent for a moment. For all of Swain's preparations for this tragic wedding, he did not rehearse them on what they are to do and how he expects them to behave.
Doing the one thing he thinks is right, Garen offers his arm to her. She accepts and they approach the stools in front of the altar and once they have sat down, the music stops. Beatrice caws and Swain begins the ceremony proper.
His grating voice echoes through the entire hall. "We are gathered here to witness the union of two souls. These two," he gestures to the 'couple' sitting before him, "have proven that disputes between two different city-states are not relevant to a heart ridden and," his tone lowers menacingly. "…ultimately burdened by love."
The crowd is silent, whether they are supposed to respond or Swain is jesting, they know nothing; not a whit. Clearing his throat, Swain continues, "We are all blessed right now to witness such a momentous event. History will be rewritten here."
Darius approaches the altar with a bottle of wine in one hand and a single glass chalice in the other. He places the quietly on the marble altar before Swain dismisses him. Draven goes next, holding a candelabrum with three unlit candles. He places them on the altar; closer to Swain than the first items are. It's surprising that he didn't flaunt. Finally Le Blanc comes with a chest in her hands. The entirety of the chest is inlaid with gems of varying shapes, sizes and colors. The chest in itself is small; the size of a human's palm but very heavy for its small size.
Once she has resumed her seat, the Grand General pours wine into the glass chalice. He then pushes it forward, giving the message that they should drink from it. His gaze is fixed on the 'groom' who takes it by the stem and drinks half. The Demacian general hands the chalice to his 'bride'. They hold their gazes on one another; even then holding back, dismissing their concerns as tacenda.
She breaks away from his eyes and finishes the contents of the chalice. Swain slightly frowns, but it is hardly visible, as Katarina gently slams down the chalice on the marble altar. Any more force and she would have broken the glass drinking vessel. Her defiance of him is still apparent; he still finds it to be amusing. It makes this little charade a lot more exciting.
Chuckling softly, Swain lights up the candles. The silence is heavy in the air and the pianist is quick to fill in the silence with a soft melody. Once all three candles have been lit, he announces, "May love be your light in the darkness." Katarina wants to roll her eyes, but she decides against it. It would be better to watch the Grand General make a fool of himself as she faces her demise.
Finally, the Master Tactician picks up the quaint box and opens it. Inside is a pair of rings, made of pure gold; one is slightly bigger than the other, indicating that it's for the male. Anticipation is suddenly thick in the air. The rings, like any other culture and race, signal the recitation of the vows. Both the spectators and the criminals are unconsciously looking forward to the faux vows that these two will recite for them.
The pianist fumbles with the keys and discord replaces the sweet notes drawn out by his fingers. Realizing his mistake, he immediately withdraws his fingers from the piano keys. Thankfully for him, Swain's attention is fixed elsewhere and Beatrice is the only one scrutinizing him.
The Might of Demacia surprises all of the people inside the hall when he takes the ring and his 'bride's' hand. He clears his throat and goes silent for a while. Having no sense of poetry or romanticism, he can only swallow the bile forming in his mouth. "I am Garen Crownguard, the Might of Demacia. My words may appear to be… insincere and… untrue," he finishes lamely and yet one can see that he's trying; he's trying very hard. "But I will give you everything that I have to offer. I will never leave your side… And no matter what, nothing will ever come between you and me."
She would have swooned there and then. But she knows that he can never promise such things. Katarina knows that he is only playing his part. Even so, she cannot help but wish so earnestly that his words are true.
He slips the ring into her finger, marveling at the texture of her hands. They are like sandpaper, rough and coarse, but Garen had never been a fan of smooth hands. It is quite bizarre, but one cannot argue with a man's tastes.
The Sinister Blade stares at the ring. Its weight is alien to her; an irritating itch urges her to remove it from her finger. She is not given time to dwell on it, as she is supposed to recite her vows. She would not mimic her 'groom'; she will tell the truth.
It may be the last chance for her to do so.
"I am Katarina Du Couteau," she starts, avoiding his gaze; her eyes fix themselves on the overbearing ring around her finger. "And I am no pleasant woman. I am no damsel in distress. I am no fragile doll made of porcelain. I am in no need of your protection."
The crowd is silent and Beatrice caws as if to ridicule Garen for his 'bride's' speech. Swain is silent as well; he did not think that Katarina would be so frank even in the face of death. Garen himself is quite confused and a bit abashed that this woman before him would be so brave to speak such words with the mastermind of this plot standing only an altar away from them.
"What I do need," she continues loud and clear but does not meet his stare. Her eyes are fixed onto her ring. She had dreamed of this as a little girl, with her mother feeding her with fantasies fit for a child her age. "What I need is your forgiveness," she finishes but still avoids his eyes.
He finds himself a little more dumbfounded, but he does not speak on it. His opportunity to speak is over and done with. Whatever he wants to say to her will no longer be heard and she slips the ring into his finger, still not meeting his gaze. Garen wonders briefly if she's shamefaced after admitting such things.
After a long period of silence, Beatrice caws and Swain chuckles lowly. "Very well then; you have said your vows and we are all witnesses. I now dub you, man and wife." From under his mask, the Grand General snickers; his charade is not quite done yet. "Garen Crownguard, you are now responsible for your wife as Katarina Du Couteau is responsible for the name you have given her." He motions for the crowd to stand up and they do, without hesitation or a moment's pause. "I hereby present to you, Master Crownguard and Mistress Crownguard. You may now kiss your wife."
This time she is forced to look at him in the eyes, searching for an answer to what they're supposed to do. He's just as clueless as she is. They would wait with all the time in the world in their hands, but there is an inevitable end that is waiting for them beyond their imperative action.
Gently and oh-so-softly, he places a hand on her shoulder, making her draw back in surprise. He smiles, a small one that assures her of small things and sweet nothings with just one simple gesture. And she can't help but hold onto that, even though she may only be deluding herself. Out of reflex, Katarina closes her eyes as Garen slowly approaches her face.
Their lips lock for a brief moment, but to her it was like an eternity of bittersweet sensations concentrated solely on her lips. When he draws back, she can only open her eyes and brace herself for whatever will come next. The faux marriage is over with and now, the death will come to all of them.
There is no applause, no exclamations of jubilation, no wedding bells tolling and no sound at all. The couple turns to see their friends and their family, dead. How they managed to die without so much as a sound and in such a quick manner, the possibility escapes them.
"Such a tragic event," Swain mutters as he removes Katarina's bangles and the cufflinks on Garen's sleeves. He lifts up the top of the marble altar and produces the stash of Katarina's blades and Garen's sword.
The 'couple' grabs their weapons and turn to one another. It is clear that the Master Tactician is under the belief that they will be more than willing to kill themselves after seeing everyone important to them die. She points her blade at her 'groom's' midsection, ready to pierce through the fabric and flesh to kill him. His eyes glimmer with apprehension, the same shine she saw in his eyes when they parted ways. The Might of Demacia raises his sword, the point of his blade at the crown of her head.
The fact that the male Crownguard will not give the Du Couteau heiress a clean death amuses Swain. He steps back, not wanting to stain the regal green of his robes with the color of their blood and to see their deaths in the best position to see it. The other spectators are also deep in anticipation. Watching these two destroy one another will be a sight to see.
Their rivalry will end in nothing but another draw.
Katarina smirks; Garen roars as he raises his blade and plants it on the ground, depressing the marble altar a bit. The Sinister Blade is quick to use her Shunpo to escape the range of his attack. It takes a moment for Swain to realize what is happening and the moment costs him a lot as the large ethereal blade descends from the heavens and shatters the very ground beneath his feet.
The Noxian spectators are equally disoriented by the sudden action, but that is enough for the Du Couteau lady to inflict a few damaging injuries to them as she spins her blades and disappears before reappearing somewhere else to repeat the process. Once most of them are incapacitated enough to not interfere: Morgana suffers from a blow to her spine and deep gashes on her legs and her rotten wings, Darius' wrist is immobilized when Katarina crushed it in between two of her blades' hilts, Draven cannot move his arms as he received gashes on his forearm—crippling but quite far from his artery; Le Blanc's fingers are cut cleanly and she can no longer grip her staff. Vladimir is the only exception as Katarina slit his throat, knowing that a mere scratch will stop the Crimson Reaper.
"I see you have chosen to fight," Swain mutters as he stands up on the depressed ground with the support of his cane. Beatrice lands on his shoulder and caws. "You will regret this." He morphs into a raven, like he's merging with Beatrice and making a new grotesque creature. Garen and Katarina have seen this many times at the Fields of Justice, but this time, it's different.
Garen grabs his sword and catches Katarina's eyes. She relays a plan to him with a glance to his sword and then to him; he can see how it will work, but is afraid. He's afraid to risk because if it goes wrong then he will be completely alone. He will settle for being this woman's husband just as long as he will not be left alone. For some reason, he's afraid of being alone.
He glances at his sister's corpse and jumps back just in time before Swain manages to scathe him. She does the same and quickly puts on a belt of daggers on her left thigh. The dress is in the way of most of her movements, so she cuts a slit from the bottom to the top of her thigh on each side. With a smirk, she jumps in the air and throws two of her small daggers to the raven's eyes. The thrill of finally being able to injure the Grand General of Noxus is making her chortle.
Swain screeches and removes the daggers before roaring angrily, making the chandeliers shake and quiver. "Can you refrain from infuriating him?" Garen shouts to his 'bride' and his only comrade in this predicament.
"Oh please," she waves a dismissive hand towards the Demacian male. "You don't know how long I've wanted to do that outside of the Fields of Justice." She throws another dagger, but this time, Swain evades it successfully.
The Might of Demacia swings his sword and deflects whatever attack the horrendous creature is throwing at him. He manages to get close and swings his sword down to hit nothing but air, his feet on the depressed ground close to the altar. He hears hacking sounds coming from behind him and sees Katarina's throat encased within the raven's claws.
He rushes to her rescue, but she's already embedded one of her longer blades into Swain's, presumable, legs. She is dropped to the ground and has little time to nurse her nearly broken throat and uses her Shunpo to get away from him.
She reappears beside Garen and says, "We need to finish this quickly."
"Then we will," Garen says. "The dance of blades, isn't it?"
The Du Couteau lady chuckles as she wipes the blood at the corner of her mouth. "I see you've been paying attention."
"More than you'll ever know, Katarina; more than you'll ever know," he says cryptically.
Before she can even think about the meaning behind his words, Swain is rapidly heading towards them. She finds purchase on Garen's blade and he spins, brining his sword to the ground and to the sky. She never would have imagined riding on his sword to help him defeat someone.
He stops spinning his blade and Katarina is sent flying towards Swain. She grabs one of her longer blades and spins like a top, her hair escaping the binds of the braid and flying madly about her. The Grand General hears Garen shouting his city-state's name with utmost pride, different from how he would shout it in the Fields of Justice.
The Sinister Blade's attacks make contact with his morphed body and he can feel his blood seeping out from the many wounds she has inflicted on him and the wounds that she continues to inflict on him. The Might of Demacia positions himself behind Swain and swings down, it misses but the former sees the flash of crimson and feels another wound joining the many ones inflicted on him.
He can no longer make out anything clearly. Jericho Swain can only see the flashes of crimson, indicating Katarina's hair and cerulean, indicating Garen's suit. He can feel his wounds increasing in number and suddenly he reminisces about his childhood. It will not be enough to finish him as there are many folds of magic at work in his body. But he has never felt as helpless as he does now and he did as a child.
Their dance of blades is a force to be reckoned with.
Soon he has morphed back to his original form, a crippled human and he joins the dead Demacians on the floor of the hall. He gurgles out a laugh and says in a grating voice, "You will not be left alone for this," he warns them. "I will be able to find you wherever you may be hiding and when I do; you will be shown no mercy."
Katarina smirks and says, "When you find us, old man," she draws out the last two words to mock him. "You will not be able to stand up again."
"We will show you no mercy, Jericho Swain," Garen says, ridden with contempt.
"What are we going to do now?" Garen asks his bride who is sitting across him. They're riding in a smuggled carriage, threatening the coach with their weapons. "We can't go to Demacia and direct Swain's wrath to the people."
She nods. "Noxus is obviously not a good idea too." Sighing, Katarina says, "We can always stay in the Institute of War, but Swain has probably made sure that we can't go there."
"We'll have to wander off to places then," he concludes as he puts his sword down. "Freedom is quite costly isn't it, Miss-," he pauses and remedies with a smirk, "Mistress Crownguard?"
She returns the gesture and remarks, "I can feel the repetition of what happened when we were younger."
"I disagree," Garen leans back. "I can feel that it will be better."
Katarina sighs contentedly and nods. "Then lead the way, Master Crownguard."
To be honest I don't know what I did in this fanfic... .
So I would understand if you KataRen shippers don't like it.
I think the problem is that Katarina is not my type of character and I never bothered to use her, thus I found it hard to put her into words and to add the personality. I've found that if I use at least one character in my fic then it will turn out... fine. As for my "Sun and Moon" fic, I have also never used any of the three characters there (excluding the OC), but I particularly found Pantheon amusing with his aspirations to become a baker and I think that's why I managed to pull it off.
I'm just going to stop talking right now... XD
The wedding ceremony stuff is inspired by Tim Burton's "The Corpse Bride", one of the movies that I like... A LOT. =D
So yeah, please do not hesitate to click the REVIEW button and feel free to convey your deepest darkest thoughts regarding the fic as it is greatly appreciated. =D
Especially since I am quite unsure of the quality of this fic...
Thanks for reading! =D
chquine_harvinellisse